Write Upon the Shrinking Skies
by Maelstrom Sparrow
Summary: Inspired by the poetry of Rupert Brooke. Sometimes it can be terribly difficult to speak the truth. In that case, it's easier to use someone else's words. America/England.


XxXxX

The pen hovered above America's back, quivering and jerking in England's hand. His nervousness was evident in the way he blushed and bit his lip, hesitated, shook. His palm made soft, round indents on the couch when he shifted, careful not to disturb his comrade and client, who for once was lying still and calm. It was strange, to see all that dynamic American relaxed and splayed lazily across his couch.

He'd distracted himself. Again. "Er…where did you want me to write it?" he said quietly.

America was in pieces – his glasses were placed on the coffee table, his shirt thrown over a recliner, his bomber jacket hung by the door, and his back, tanned and sinuous in the dim light of the study, was underneath England's cautious fingers. He was just a little too tall for the little couch, his feet propped up on the opposite armrest. Clutching a pillow under his chin, he sighed.

"Anywhere on the right's fine," he said, jerking his arm to indicate the preferred side.

England reminded himself again that America had come to him for nothing more than advice and calligraphy. He was a little flustered when America had stripped off his shirt and announced he wanted a poem inscribed on his back, but he realized later that his purpose was little more than that of a typist, a scribe. The calligrapher repositioned himself a little awkwardly on the chaise, trying to touch nothing but the canvas he'd been strictly assigned to. As he shifted, a tiny droplet of ink landed cleanly on America's skin. "Ah!"

"What now?" the subject said, trying to repress his laughter. His movement broke the little inky bead like an egg yolk, and England tried to rub it away, succeeding only in making a bruiselike, smudgy stain.

"Aw, eff it-" he grumbled. "It's gone all blobby and…fuck."

"Don't worry," America encouraged, still guarding his laugh, "just write."

Hesitantly, England complied. The words of the chosen poem flowed easily and smoothly from his memory, in the most elegant calligraphy in Europe. His focus had to be carefully divided, though, as America was one to talk at the worst of times.

"I should get a permanent one someday," he mused excitedly.

"Trust me," England snorted, "This is better."

There was silence again, until England began to get a little wrapped up in the writing and mumble the words along with the poem.

"Scarlet splendor of your name-" he half whispered. Then, blushingly, he remedied, "I like that line."

America grunted, upsetting a cross on one of the t's. England frowned at him. "It kinda makes me sound like a communist," America speculated with false horror.

The wonderful tickling sensation of the pen stopped short as England snorted. "Or a Republican."

Taking offense as best he could, America said, "Although I am still a Democrat."

"Are you?" England said bemusedly. "Congratulations."

"You didn't know?" America said, surprised. "I thought-"

"I was ignoring the news while your election was on," he replied, adding an artful flourish onto a "g."

He felt America's taut shoulders sag a little. England jabbed him irately with the pen.

"Oh, don't grouch," he said kindly, " I just wanted to hear it from you."

Before America could dwell too long on that, he continued, "anyways, I would change it to Cobalt or something but the ink's already dry."

"It's alright," America muttered.

"I don't even know why you picked this poem," England continued. "It doesn't have anything to do with anything."

America was oddly quiet at that, and England was left to finish his flourishes in silence. As soon as he was done, though, the country said, "because it reminds me of you."

England, who had been replacing his quill carefully, nearly dropped the inkwell.

"It's an English poem," he said, coughing and trying to dismiss it. He started to – stupidly – question if this was really just business. Lines from the poem, etched in clear black on America's skin, seemed to grow voices and echo. They wormed into his senses and refused to leave his mind alone – things like _I'll break and forge the stars anew…because I love you, very strong._

"Not just that," the other country insisted, refusing to move from his spot on the couch. "The first bit. It reminds me of when we met and you told me what I was."

England let his eyes lose focus, and the stark column of ink blurred at the edges. The line sprang to his mind unbidden, "You flash through ranks of frightened stars-"

"Suddenly on the universe," America finished. "Yeah, that bit."

He stared shamelessly, feeling some twisted kind of affection. America was quiet now, flicking his sock feet against the armrest of the couch and sleepily completing the lines from British poems. It was both unconventionally sweet and so unlike him. England didn't know if he loved or hated the scarcity of moments like these.

"I wanted to pick something like this to commemorate today. Do you remember what day it is?" America asked teasingly.

England thought. Aside from four days after the Presidential election, which seemed too arbitrary, the best he could come up with was Thursday.

"I'm…not sure."

America sat up suddenly, rolling over and crossing his arms in agitation. England nearly rebounded right off the couch. And just like that, quiet-America was gone. How surprising. "It's my birthday!" he yelled.

"Your what? No it isn't!" England protested, springing back and landing on the opposite side of the couch.

"Not Independence Day," America pronounced, rolling his eyes. England flinched. "The day that we met. It's three hundred and fifty years ago today. I can't believe it, you of all people-"

He fell quiet. England was looking away, and looking angry. Angry mostly at himself, but he couldn't let America know. He ran with the first idea that popped into his head.

"Don't make fun of me," he chided, staring blushingly into the couch cushions. "That's not your _birthday._ You've never celebrated it before. Do you want something from me? You don't have to suck up, you know, you could just _ask,_" he said, his voice accelerating, speed and pitch.

"I'm not! I don't want anything. I'm not making fun of you!" America replied, incredulous.

"Seriously?"

England's voice was half sarcasm, half threat.

"Seriously! It's important to me!"

"I don't believe you."

"And why not?"

"Well, let's think," England said acerbically, "You already have _another_ birthday. One that you rub in my face every year. One that you celebrate with _the_ most obnoxious fireworks and brass bands and parties and speeches and gung-ho American hyper-patriotism. One that has easily been the worst day of every one of my past hundred-or-so years!"

"Well, why?"

"Isn't it obvious? The most important day in your entire history is the day you left me behind!"

America looked like he was ready to reply – but that had not been the answer he was expecting. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a shocked little squeak. "Wait, what?" he said, collecting his thoughts.

England, wounded and more than a little embarrassed, turned away from him and growled. "You heard what I said." Even though it hadn't been what he was intending. Well, fuck.

Painful silence stretched on between them. America let his eyes focus away from England, somewhere on the table amidst all the papers, inkwells and pens, and the _Selected Works of Rupert Brooke _that they'd been searching through. "Sorry," he thought aloud.

This time it was England's turn to be surprised out of his retaliation. He'd been expecting another fiery, childish retort, not _that_. His anger instantly softened and dissipated. "Never mind," he said with a sigh. "It's not important."

"Of course it is!" America insisted. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

England said nothing.

"I hate it when you do that pouting thing," he continued loudly. "You know I can't resist you when you do."

Highly doubting that they'd interpreted that sentence in the same way, England glared at him, tucking his knees up to his chest. Instead of being allowed his time to mope, however, America barreled into him and tried to pin him to the couch.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" England shrieked, scratching away at America's arms wildly.

"Stop squirming, I just want to give you one!"

England's claws connected with America's shoulder, and dug in. "What?" he demanded as America yelled "ow!" but continued to fight him until he was fully restrained.

"I just mean a poem!" he said angrily. "One of the ones from the book, you need one too. I promise this one will make you feel better."

And that, England decided, was just America's style – if someone was suffering, broken heart or bloody wound, he wouldn't just let them sit there or wait for them to ask for help. He'd shove help down their throat until they got better by force. His hands managed to find purchase on America's shoulders, and he shoved him back.

"Alright! Alright already. You brute," he said scathingly, caving to the impertinent hero as usual. America was grinning, impervious to insult.

England hastily unbuttoned his shirt before he could change his mind, draped it over the back of the chair and turned self-consciously. He was now hyperaware of the fact that America was bigger, stronger, more toned and more tanned, especially when the country crawled forwards and pulled England's crossed fists off his lean, pale chest.

"Don't turn over," he instructed, suddenly in business mode. "I think you'll want it…_here._"

England froze as a huge, warm palm landed over his heart. He tried to maintain composure. Any leftover anger vanished, and he struggled not to reach out grab America by the collar and-

"I'm pretty sure I know it from memory."

Watching him carefully instead of the pen, England was just a little shocked when it scratched across his chest. He felt his skin jump and his muscles flutter, but America stayed on course and did not mar the words. His eyes were screwed up, narrow with focus and pure without those shielding glasses. As he wrote, his lips moved gently and soundlessly. On occasion, he would pause, look up at the ceiling, and talk to himself under his breath before continuing. England was sharply aware of the armrest in his back, the tense forearm holding America up next to his ribcage. He kept his teeth grit and held his breath nearly the whole time. Luckily the poem was short – a fourteen-line sonnet. Anything longer and England's breath would have slid out of control, his eyes would have fluttered closed, his secret would have been out.

"Read it," he said automatically. Perhaps the secret would out anyways.

Those blue eyes had been focused entirely on the poem, and now they snapped up to meet his. He grinned like he had won something and complied. His words dripped with implied rhythm, just off normal speech, made it musical-

"If I should die," he said, "think only this of me."

England felt a slow, sad smile emerge on his face. America broke their stare and looked to the words he had scrawled, smiling. "That there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England. There shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed."

He remembered Brooke clearly with those words. How dedicated he was, how proud to fight, even though he was so young and so loving. The poet reminded him of a certain nation – and now that nation was speaking through the poet. And with the two of them so cleanly synchronized, the meaning became clear; the sonnet was a dedication.

And at only fourteen lines, it had to be beautiful. It had to enthrall you from the start, the way America's hands enthralled him, when they traced hot lines over his skin, pulsing with his heartbeat.

He paused, faltered, and England could hardly bear it. He looked up, blue eyes cool in the heated atmosphere, full of promises.

"A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam…"

It became slowly and ominously clear that they were not talking about the soldier anymore. England could feel the implications hovering between them, and as America spoke it only intensified – and he was so close now, shutting the space between their chests and nearly whispering the words. America's hand wandered, sped over his shoulder, down his arm and then gently around his wrist, which he lifted and then held up in the diminishing space between them.

"And think…this heart…"

England felt his hand jerk reactively in America's. With much more caution, much more care, he responded by placing it gingerly onto his own skin, over his own chest. England's fingers curled and then splayed out flat.

America swallowed audibly. "All evil shied away, a pulse in the eternal mind-"

-And it was so true, because he could _feel_ it, the pounding was there under his fingers-

"-no less, gives somewhere back the thoughts of England given."

He released him, but England did not yet pull his hand away. It beat in with the metre, soft-strong, soft-strong, soft-strong…but America's voice had faded, and he was left with nothing but the beats. The words were pulled up from him like a machine.

"Her sights and sounds," he prompted, closing his eyes to envision them, the way a true connoisseur enjoyed a sonnet. "Dreams happy as her day."

He felt America's weight descend, bringing himself closer to the trembling, heady voice. England bent compliantly, feeling the warm breath on his cheek, sensing America's hand land delicately and mirror his own position. How close was he now? England allowed himself to dream.

"-and gentleness," America was saying quietly. "In hearts at peace-"

His voice faded. Both seemed unable to finish, but the dangling line suited them better. Like a release of breath, in hearts at peace. It was forgotten how close they were, how England had gently fallen into the chaise and how America had settled with him, how their fingers examined the inky marks they had made across each other. Instead, both were lost in memory.

"Does that explain?" he whispered hopefully. "I think-"

"Quiet, please," England urged, but not angrily. His voice was strained and soft. "Thank you."

Despite everything – despite war, despite time, despite oceans – America didn't want to forget him. There was some shaky feeling, some historical bond that held them together, tenuous and partial, but enough. Just enough. He let his hand roam around to America's back, latched it with the other and pulled him down into-

-what was _intended_ as a hug. And yet in the thrall of the words, someone slipped. Someone misinterpreted, someone did not explain. So without understanding or sense they collided, their lips bumping messily into each other. England grunted drowsily and America brushed a hand across his cheek, it was too late to remember it had all been an accident.

Too late, because now reality and illusion and poetry and dream collided and mixed, too good to be real, too warm to be false. Everything was heavy, the hard air, the push of America's kiss, the weight of him bearing down into England's chest. He felt a stumbling rhythm in the motion of his lips, the thrum of their hearts pressed together. His mind fought to work but he pushed it away, because there was gentle movement in the kiss and delirious feelings in his head and warmth wherever America's hands went, running down his chest and looping behind his waist or tangling in his hair and angling his neck…

And it was suddenly over. He wasted a few seconds of denial before he cracked open his eyes, and there was America, staring and blushing. Reality followed not far behind. Like a slap in the face.

Especially when America _shrieked_ and jumped backwards, smashing into the opposite side of the chaise and nearly toppling off to the floor.

"What did you do _that_ for?" England yelped, sitting up and burying his fingers into the cushion on the chaise.

"I'm sorry!" America responded, vaulting over the couch and practically landing in his shoes. England watched in utter disbelief as he started to scamper around the room and collect his strewn accessories. Understanding dawned on him, and not a moment too soon – America was hastily re-buttoning his shirt and halfway to the door.

"I'm not talking about that!" he said frantically. "Sit down!"

The other country looked very indecisive. He toyed with the collar of his jacket.

For almost no reason at all, England started to laugh, little bursts of giddy giggles. "I'm not talking about that," he repeated.

"But I just-"

"Yes," England said, as his laughter continued. "And about bloody time too. I promise I won't hurt you for it, now come _here._"

Obeying out of old habit, America shuffled shamefully over to the couch, inserting himself between the coffee table and the cushions. England thought he looked far too tall, especially when he stared up in the corner of the room in that not-so-innocent way he always had. He draped the jacket over both of his hands. The seated country tugged on the end of it insistently.

"Sit _down,_ I did say I wouldn't hurt you."

Again, he did so, staying to the extreme end of the couch and practically radiating apology and guilt. England felt this was quite unfair, because he, on the other hand, was absolutely mindlessly elated. Everything felt like…like fireworks, mysterious, wonderful bursts of light and colour. All of that surrounded by awe – _he did kiss me, didn't he?_

"I'm sorry, England…I got all wrapped up in the poetry and stuff…y-you know what that's like- well, not exactly, obviously, I mean…" he paused and rubbed nervously at his neck.

"Indeed I do know what that's like," he said, stifling his laughter again. "In fact I believe I know _exactly._"

At last, America looked at him. The blue eyes were full of mixed hope and disbelief, and as he watched, they grew wide with surprise and then sparkled – probably literally _shone_ – with anticipation. England watched it all and marveled at how expressive those eyes were. They even beat the grin, wide, blinding and white.

"Huh. You're not mad, are you?"

England shook his head, almost positive he, too, was smiling like an idiot.

"You actually look pretty happy."

He shook his head the other way this time.

America's grin flew back in full force. And then he flung his arms back and tucked them behind his head, slung his legs up on the coffee table and crossed them.

"Ha!" he said aloud, as England dove to make sure he didn't knock any ink bottles over. "Ha, ha, ha ha. Ha ha-ha ha-ha!" he chirruped. It came out like a song, and his smile twisted into a smirk. "I knew it. I knew it!"

England snorted and rolled his eyes. "You're so annoying," he supplied.

"Yeah, but that's why you _love_ me," America said, cocky as anything even with his shirt buttoned up wrong and his glasses askew. England crawled forwards and pushed the glasses up his nose, then changed his mind and yanked them off again, setting them respectfully on the table.

He paused. They leaned up against the book of Rupert Brooke poetry. England stared for a moment, considering. America tried to catch his attention, looping his arms around his waist and pressing his lips cautiously to England's turned cheek, but the country didn't look from the book as he began to speak.

"They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, or out of earth, or in the height, singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, or two that pass in light to light."

America waited for him and England turned back, planting a quick reciprocal kiss on his forehead. He was tugged closer, and looped his arms around the nation's neck.

"It's called _Dust,"_ he said happily.

"In that instant they shall learn the shattering ecstasy of that fire?"

England jumped again and smiled. America was a lot more educated than he let on. How many books of his had he read? He thought about asking, but decided he would let it go. There was all the time in the world for questions. Instead, he nuzzled into America's shoulder, and completed the poem with a laugh and a sigh.

"They will know, poor fools, they'll know, one moment, what it is to love."

XxXxX

A/N: All the poetry in here is by Rupert Brooke, an English First World War soldier who was also one of the youngest yet most awesome poets of the era. The three poems featured here are The Call ("I'll break and forge the stars anew" and "scarlet splendour of your name); The Soldier ("If I should die think only this of me" etc.); and Dust. Although I changed one whole word in the last one to make it make sense. THE HORROR AND SIN OF ME.

I re-read these poems again a few days ago. They are awesome. They are also all on the internet, so you should go read them.

And then my love mutated into an America/England fic. AHAHAHAHA. I tend to do that with EVERYTHING recently.

Also I feel like a snob. Second hetalia fic is about poetry and Assoluta is about ballet. OH WELL. Because guess what? That is what I love about Hetalia. You get in to so many layers with countries, including culture and literature and dance. Although I promise I will one day write something fluffy or funny that doesn't involve all this bookwormy stuff :P Or something DARK. YESH.

Take a cookie on your way out~


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